


Those Pianist Fingers

by JustDrinkTea



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cuddling and Snuggling, Fluff, M/M, Music, Nightmares, Piano, Post-Sburb/Sgrub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:12:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustDrinkTea/pseuds/JustDrinkTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a piano song helps chase away reoccurring night terrors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Pianist Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! This was written quickly, but I felt like posting it here anyway. Be warned that I wrote it on my iPad and I haven't read through it for mistakes. Because I'm lazy. So if you spot any odd typo's, let me know. Enjoy!

You have sat at the piano for at least an hour, practicing and practicing until you had that new piece memorized. You liked it when you had something committed to memory; it meant that you didn’t have to worry about turning any pages or missing any crescendos or decrescendos. 

Nope, you could ad lib on dynamics a bit now. Free to interpret however you chose. 

Which was good because when it came to playing your self-composed scores, you tended to be a bit wishy-washy on which style you preferred. But you were pretty sure this piece was meant to be played slow and light- fingers gliding elegantly over the ivory instead of bouncing or pounding away at the keys. 

You feel a sudden presence next to you on the bench and sneak a peek at the visitor, not a beat in the music misplaced as you do so. 

To your left sits Dave, stone-faced and collected as always. He says nothing and neither do you and both of you continue on as you were before. The only contact you make is in those few measures when you’re required to lean over on him slightly to be able to hit the low notes. He doesn’t seem to mind, but he doesn’t exactly make an effort to get out of your way when you require it, either. 

You finish the song on a lovely A chord; your favorite. Dave’s often criticized you for having a preferred musical chord, but you figure it just must be a pianist thing. What does he know anyway, that turntables tool?

“Play another one,” he says, leaning onto your shoulder. He sounds tired, despite the fact that it’s well into the afternoon. 

You start up another piece, this one slower and simpler than the last. And you figure, not that he’d ever admit it, that this is probably Dave’s favorite. “Did you sleep last night?” you ask as you play. It’d taken you years, but you had managed to train yourself to be able to pull off talking and playing at once. 

Dave shook his head, still resting it on your shoulder. “Nope. Couldn’t. I think that damn boogeyman is back chilling under my bed. Probably brought some lady friends down there with him.”

So his nightmares had returned. 

It had been years since SBURB. You all had the occasional nightmare- it appeared some memories from the game would continue to haunt you forever- but Dave had them the worse. You couldn’t even count the all the times you’d had to shake him awake in the dead of night. He rarely screamed, but he was always thrashing, sweating and panicked. 

Once you’d woken him up, and he’d pulled a katana out on you as a reflex. Neither of you bring it up, but neither have you forgotten. 

“Will you try to sleep tonight?” you ask, glancing at him for a moment before your eyes return to the keys. 

“Probably not.”

“We’ve got those sleeping pills in the cupboard.”

“Fuck that shit.”

“I’ll call Rose.

Dave groans. “Fuck her, too. She’ll probably diagnose me with some kind of mental disease that doesn’t even exist and then she’ll somehow manage to trace back to my childhood and lack of parental guidance or some shit, fly over here, shove those pills down my throat and then we’ll have a forced heart-to-heart about my feelings as I’m all drugged up on meds.”

“I think that’s-“

“And then she’ll go home and base her latest tragic character off me and make a million bucks off it.”

Okay so you weren’t going to call Rose after all, you decide. The last thing you need is drama. And drama is pretty hard to avoid when you live with Dave Strider. 

You stop playing and nudge Dave’s sleepy figure off you so you can stand. 

“Hey, you didn’t finish,” he protests. He sounds an awful lot like a child when he’s lacking sleep, you notice. 

“If you’re not going to sleep tonight, then you’re at least going to take a nap.” Maybe you could get him to lay down now and sleep through the whole night. 

But as you felt his glare through his shades, you realized it was going to be nothing short of a battle. You step behind him and loop your arms under his in an attempt to get him to stand. But instead he goes completely limp in your arms. 

You stumble under the sudden weight and look down at him disapprovingly. “C’mon, Dave. You’re not five anymore.”

No response. 

“You’re an ass.”

He grins. 

Suddenly you don’t feel so symphethetic anymore. You pull him off the bench and he lands on the floor with a thud and an “Ow! Fuck, Egbert!”

“If you’re not going to walk then I’m going to drag you to bed!”

You really shouldn’t have told him that. Because five mintues later you were pulling him up the stairs. Hey, less work for Dave, right? Occasionally, though, you heard a satisfactory “ow” from below. That made you feel a little bit better. 

It had been more of a struggle than you would’ve liked, but finally you manage to get him into your room. You had made it clear you refused to drag him through his own room on account of the mess overpowering the floor. And probably the bed, too. You’d really hoped that some of your clean tendencies would rub off on him once you moved in together. 

That hadn’t happened. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you manage to get Dave laying down on your bed. You reach down to take off his glasses, but he grabs your wrist, lips pursed stubbornly. 

“Dave, come on,” you say, getting a little tired of him acting like a child. 

“Only if you finish,” he says. 

You’re confused for a second. “The song?”

He nods. “But here. You have to sleep with me.”

You think you understand. “Alright,” you say with a nod. 

He releases your wrist and you finally remove his glasses, setting them down on the nightstand. You turn back around and wince slightly when you get a glipse of his eyes- they’re bloodshot and surrounded by dark circles. Something tells you he’s been having trouble for a few days now. 

Dave doesn’t bother to move over for you, so you climb over top of him. You always preferred the left side anyway, so it’s not that big of a deal, you decide. As soon as you’re situated, he turns onto his side facing you. 

He looks more tired than ever now and without his shades, he looks a lot like a kid who’s afraid of the dark. He only furthers this theory as he grabs you and pulls you close to his chest. You won’t lie, it feels pretty nice. “John….” he whines in a very mumbled voice. 

Oh right, the piano piece. You wrap your arm around him and begin tapping your fingers against his back, humming along as you play your new Dave piano. He must find the mini-massage soothing because he’s fast asleep within a few moments. You continue on until the song is done, and then you just lay there, your head resting on Dave’s chest. 

His fingers tangle themselves up in your hair and he curls into a loose ball against you. It’s not long before you doze off yourself, lulled to sleep by the other’s slow breathing. 

This night becomes another unspoken taboo in your household- no one brings it up. And if you were to ever bring up how you both woke up dazed and tangled in each other, he’d probably deny it. 

But from then on, whenever Dave has nightmares, he stumbles into your room and usually into your bed. There was one time where he tripped over his own feet and figured the floor was close enough. 

But usually, he climbs into bed with you and curls up into that little ball. Sometimes you’ll wake up and “play” your piece, and sometimes you’ll just wake up in the morning and he’s there, fast asleep. 

Not that you’re complaining either way.


End file.
